


In Which Mr Norrell Gets Closer To A Woman Than He Ever Expected He Would

by Predatrix



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Anal Sex, Genderfuck, Hand Jobs, Male Character in Female Body, Oral Sex, Other, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 19:01:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5139020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Predatrix/pseuds/Predatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Answer to my own prompt on the kink-meme when I got suddenly inspired. What if a Fairy transformed Gilbert Norrell into an exact duplicate of Arabella? So Jonathan can have what he wanted (Arabella) and Gilbert can have what <i>he</i> wanted (Jonathan), so they'd both be happy. Or that's what the Fairy thought, anyway. </p><p>Contains ridiculous quantities of slightly-weird sex (and Norrell in no knickers because he can't figure out stays or women's underwear), the peculiar nature of cats in Faerie, a cameo appearance by the new King of Hope-regained, and it all turns out very well, considering.</p><p>Oh, I should have noted that it's a strictly time-limited change and our Gilbert is soon back to normal!</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Mr Norrell Gets Closer To A Woman Than He Ever Expected He Would

The whole problem came from Mr Strange impulsively doing a Fairy child a good turn by rescuing it from a lake monster (at the time he reacted as simply as he would if it were a Christian child, because whatever else it was, it was a child). Therefore the mother turned up with an undischarged debt. As soon as he returned to where Mr Norrell sat beneath a blossoming pear tree in the flickering light of a spell to read by, Mr Norrell told him that such behaviour was most ill-advised. 

"I was rather at a loss, sir, because I was certain that if I should tell her I wished for nothing less than Fairy favours, she would do something appalling. So I told her to come back when I was in the company of my tutor, for whom I have the greatest respect," said Mr Strange. 

Mr Norrell snorted, a behaviour he had picked up from Childermass, although he exercised it more delicately. "I remember when you _did_ have the greatest respect for me. I believe it was in 1809. It has been in gradual decline ever since."

Then, of course, the Fairy turned up. She was a great lady, and nothing in the least like his erstwhile Lordship of Lost-hope. Her dress was only made with little silhouetted cat-faces that miaowed, rather than actual parts of people or animals: although Mr Norrell found the "cat" idea disturbing, there was less of a suggestion of cruelty than playfulness. 

"Could you please restore us to our country, and myself to my wife?" was Strange's first suggestion. Mr Norrell almost groaned. _Never offer your most-desired bargain at first,_ he thought.

"Alas, I cannot countermand the wishes of..." and here she said something, that was almost words, almost birdsong, and almost the cries of ravens. 

Mr Norrell uttered an exclamation of wordless annoyance-- _(does he thwart us at every turn?)_ \--but was immediately silenced by a glance from her dark, bird-like eye. 

"I could perhaps bring your wife to you," she suggested, like a great lady offering great favour. 

Mr Strange gasped with horror, and said, "Of your courtesy, madam, I pray you to leave her where she is. I do not love her so little as to wish to deprive her of the day, her country, or her friends, simply to have her company." Mr Norrell felt a little sad, a little small; if she had offered him the company of John Childermass just after they'd been placed here, he was not sure he would have been the better man and turned her down. He would have known it was right, but he was not _quite_ sure he would have done it. He had been so horribly lonely sometimes before Mr Strange had settled to be on better terms with him. 

"Ah--I have it! It shall please both of you!" She gestured gracefully toward Mr Norrell, and Mr Norrell felt something very odd happen. He looked down at his familiar warm, old clothes, his familiar stolid little body, and saw--

"Bell?" said Mr Strange doubtfully. 

"I regret to inform you, _no,_ sir," said Mr Norrell, in a distressing soprano that made him jump. His senses were generally much less troubled than they had been in his youth, but a woman's voice unexpectedly inside his ears was all kinds of wrong, and his waist, his...chest, his skin, were all wrong (or all not-right, all in the wrong place). These differences were perfectly fine on Mrs Strange herself, having grown up a lady, but quite wrong on him. Not that he _was_ a him, right now. He yelped, and was only restrained from clutching at himself by the belief that he would go into strong hysterics if he confirmed that supposition. Which was to say, the absence at his crotch was even more disturbing than the presence on his chest. Not that he generally spent much time considering his...virile member, but it had always been there. 

The lady chuckled, and said, "There, see! You may both enjoy this much, even if I have not the art to send you to the lady."

Both of them said, "But! Madam!" and she pouted at them. "Oh, you are no fun to tease! 'Tis a mere sennight, not even a fortnight or a month, and no harm done." And she waved them a graceful farewell, and melted into air. 

"Well! _That's_ a facer!" exclaimed Jonathan Strange. 

"I am extremely pleased that she decided to limit it by time, if she was going to do such a dreadful thing," said Mr Norrell (rather more musically than he would have _in propria persona,_ which said all sorts of odd things about personality conforming to body). 

"There is nothing 'dreadful' about my wife, sir!" said Mr Strange, sharply. 

Mr Norrell squeaked. "Oh, by no means, by no means! It is only the unnatural quality of the situation."

The next day, Mr Strange discovered a place where fairies had been collecting their food. Fruit was heaped ready for their use. When he returned home, he reported on mounds of gleaming ruby cherries, hills of apples swirled with mixed unnaturally-bright red-and-green colours, pyramids of bizarrely storm-blue oranges--and a positive mountain of spiky and threatening pineapples like armour lying in wait! He trembled, and sounded quite overset. 

Mr Norrell almost told him how irrational such a fancy was, but suddenly remembered the things Childermass had occasionally felt the need to say, being the voice of sweet reason, to him. They sometimes, with some effort on his part, changed his behaviour. They had never changed the feelings he had, about cats, or mice, or street-sorcerers, or lost books, and he had always felt more comforted when Childermass had simply made him tea and listened to him complain. So he made tea of the ridiculously strong variety Mr Strange seemed to prefer, and talked about whether Mr Strange might work on some sort of spell for discovering the weather outside. While Mr Norrell was absolutely certain that there was nothing wrong with good English rain, he was by no means as sanguine about unnatural weather, which might not even involve water (there had been a couple of feather-storms made slightly disturbing by the fact they appeared to involve raven-feathers). 

The next morning, Mr Strange seemed uncharacteristically silent and oppressed. When asked why, he admitted to pineapple dreams which had not been restful. 

Mr Norrell had little time to bask in his relative courage in pineapple-flavoured endeavours. That night, a fairy cat, possessed of slightly more than an acceptable number of limbs and tails, and emitting bright yellow sparks from its whiskers and ears, materialised in Mr Norrell's bedroom. He shrieked. Bad enough that it was a cat!

When Mr Strange appeared to see what the matter was, he said, "Even in our world cats sometimes just turn up."

Mr Norrell jumped into his arms, shivering in distress. "I know! I am very nearly as troubled by English cats, but at the least they respect a shut door, a shut window, and a set of walls. I cannot trust my own bedroom to be safe." Mr Strange held him firmly for a moment, then set him down to put the thing firmly out.

Mr Norrell would perhaps have enjoyed being held for a bit longer, because he was still shivering, but by the time he thought of this, he realised that, oh, of course, Mr Strange must regard it as terribly uncomfortable to hold his wife and have to realise she wasn't really his wife. He was somewhat cross at the Fairy: although she was of course right that Norrell himself would be delighted at the chance to be embraced by Mr Strange; because of the differences between fairies and Christians, he was actually getting rather _less_ of Mr Strange's lovely, lovely embraces than he had before in blameless friendship. 

As was the way of cats, little furry devils from Hell that they were, once it had discovered a weakness it exploited it.

The next day, Mr Norrell had been relaxing in a pleasant hot bath (Mr Strange had worked out a most effective spell that started with warming a spoonful of water over a candle flame, and finished with a number of pails full of hot water), only to find the accursed fiend in feline form practically grinning at him from beside the bath. He shrieked even harder. He was so defenceless! Even if he got out of the bath, he might inadvertently touch it. 

Mr Strange came in at a run. "I thought sure you were being murdered in your bath, sir!" he exclaimed, and modestly shielded his gaze. 

Mr Norrell drew up his knees and tried to make himself small. He was not cold enough to shiver, but he felt very much at a loss all the same. 

"I'm sorry, sir," said Mr Strange. "I know you detest them." He unceremoniously picked up the invader, which said, "Miaow!" There was something odd about this, and Mr Strange looked shocked as well. 

Mind fogged by fear, it took Mr Norrell a moment to realise, "It said 'Miaow' as a word. It didn't actually miaow."

"That's rrrr-right," said the cat. "Did you mistake me for a cat of Christendom?" It sneered, rather reminding him of Mr Lascelles, and showed rather a lot of fangs. 

Mr Strange went to the window nonetheless, and dropped it outside. He closed the window with an air of finality, and they waited about ten minutes to make sure it wasn't going to immediately reappear. 

With some relief, Mr Norrell got out, dried off, and did his best to dress himself. He was sure women did something different with their clothes (possibly with stays), because his own frocks never looked any more than droopy and somewhat frumpish. Considering his actual age, however, he was happy with this as befitting his natural dignity. 

They spent the rest of the 'day' trying to find an anti-cat spell that might work on the faerie variety. This was not entirely successful, or at least they could not find one that specifically suggested working on uncommon or magical cats. Mr Norrell felt certain that spells for mere English cats would not work in this case. 

Even when Mr Strange was drooping and yawning with the desire for sleep, Mr Norrell kept asking to look up just one more spell, even though he was quite as tired himself as Mr Strange could possibly be, and his eyes kept closing. 

Eventually, Mr Strange lifted up Mr Norrell's head from his own shoulder, and said, "Please go to bed, sir, because I am very much too weary to think, and I do not think you are in better case yourself. We cannot work like this!"

Mr Norrell muttered something Mr Strange could not hear. 

"What was that, sir?"

Mr Norrell glared. "I _said,_ I am afraid to be alone in case it comes back! I would sooner work on my magic all night than have the thing come across me while I sleep. I had a nightmare which troubled me when I was a small child, of waking up and being unable to breathe because there is a large cat on my chest."

Mr Strange sighed. "Then, sir, we shall discover the biggest bed and sleep on it together, and I shall lie on the outside. It will have to get past me to trouble you, and I am both tall and unafraid. Do please wear your nightgown since I am sure you will wish to avoid any embarrassing mistakes."

"But I always wear my night-clothes to keep warm," said Mr Norrell, mystified, and then, "oh, I see," in a small, hurt voice. Because if an 'embarrassing mistake' could get him somewhere, he would like nothing better, but he would hate to hurt Mr Strange's feelings. 

Mr Norrell's bed was the largest one in Hurtfew. It was pleasantly-appointed; although they had no servants to do the laundry (and Mr Norrell bristled at the touchy subject of laundry-spells), Mr Norrell had at least discovered a spell that left the sheets sweet-scented and soft. 

He would have felt the severest misgivings at sharing a bed with Mr Strange in this form, except that for all he knew about women (which was not extensive) from a few books of science he had read before his researches became more specialised, he believed them not to have carnal appetites the way men did. Oh, they could kiss, and swoon, but how could they become erect, or spend, without the appropriate organs? In his own body, he would not trust himself to sleep there in perfect chaste virtue, considering the many attractions of Mr Strange, but in this form he could enjoy it in peace. If Mr Strange grew a little warm at the temptation (he felt an odd un-localised throb of exhilaration at the thought), he himself could simply make him see reason. 

That was the theory. He seemed to have developed an uncommon number of knees and elbows in this so-called elegant form, or that was what it felt like. 

"Don't kick," said Mr Strange, wearily. 

He tried to settle, closing his eyes firmly and trying not to think about that lovely long body next to him, where he wanted to roll over and bury his face in the warmth between Mr Strange's neck and shoulder, and slip his fingers through his wild hair, and... It was most odd. Habit had his mental image being his short, plain, male self, nothing like the elegant swan-like lady he was now inhabiting. 

"And don't squirm. Look, _I'm_ the one who's got to have problems with temptation," said Mr Strange crossly. 

"It's not fair!" exclaimed Mr Norrell, and turned his back, hunching into a sulk to go to sleep.

He _tried._ He really did. After all, there was nothing he could do about the desire until he was back in his proper body, safe alone in his bed. He just wanted-to so desperately, even if there was nothing for him to want, quite as though he could fling himself on Jonathan and demand immediate satisfaction. And he definitely felt as though a week's waiting like this would drive him slowly mad. Even as a woman, he was abnormal. 

After about half an hour of inexplicable torment, he started to cry, quietly. He was sure he would never have done such a stupid, mortifying, utterly unbearable thing in his right state of mind and body, but women seemed to have ludicrously fluid humours at the most trivial of situations. Like wanting somebody who did not want one back. Surely to goodness he'd got used to that over the years. It wasn't as though Jonathan would ever have gone near him.

"All right, what's all this about?" said Mr Strange, in a tone of heavy patience. 

He explained. He explained twice. He explained about learning about women from books about science. And when he'd got it through to Jonathan about not expecting to be so troubled, given the difference between men and women, Jonathan started to laugh, and Mr Norrell felt he could cheerfully have murdered him. 

"No, come here and listen!" said Jonathan.

Mr Norrell looked at him mistrustfully. 

"You think women are not troubled with an appetite for carnal pleasure?"

Mr Norrell moaned, and tried to hide under the pillow. An organ that he no longer had appeared to be trying to make itself felt, which gave him a strange, dissonant feeling and the desire to let practicality go hang and just cram a hand between his legs and soothe the not-there thing. 

"Well, your body is telling you that's nonsense, if you'd only listen to it." It did appear to be of Mr Strange's opinion, and seemed to be throbbing restlessly. He was not sure what was there, on statues it merely appeared as an empty seam, but there was something. 

"It's not...abnormal?" he said, carefully. "Women feel like this? How do they bear it?"

Mr Strange went still. He looked into Mr Norrell's eyes--which felt very odd, very intimate, without the accustomed distance of his glasses--and said, "How do you feel...about me?"

"Much the same, really. But I could bear it as myself, because I knew that you would _never_ ...would _never_..." He gulped. "Sorry. I can't help it."

Mr Strange sighed. "I told her not to be a widow for me, given the unlikelihood of getting back soon, even in the next ten years or so. Maybe it's time for me to take my own advice, and cease to be a widower." He leaned over, and pressed a chaste closed kiss to Mr Norrell's lips.

Mr Norrell nearly levitated off the bed. "But that would be adultery!" he cried, in an even more startlingly-feminine shriek than he had managed when threatened by a cat. 

"I'm not sure how the rules hold if both people are in entirely different worlds," said Mr Strange. 

"And you only want me because I'm pretending to be her! Even if that's not my fault!"

"It doesn't hurt that you look like someone I'm used to finding attractive," said Jonathan reasonably. "But that's not it. Suddenly I'm actually in bed with someone who's crying, and shaking..." he pulled the chest of Mr Norrell's nightgown out and peered impertinently in, and added, "...and has a sexual flush all down their chest, because they want me so utterly desperately. I think if you looked like you, and did all that, I'd be interested."

Mr Norrell flung himself on Jonathan, still damp with tears (and apparently damp with other things, as he discovered with a blush when he opened his thighs). 

"Good!" said Jonathan. "I can tell the difference, you know. Bell was never that clumsy, so that's definitely you."

Mr Norrell bit him a little, partly for impertinence and partly because he just wanted to. 

"Now try kissing me. And take that curst night-shirt off so I can see you."

Mr Norrell had no idea what to do. When he was naked, he shut his eyes and fell awkwardly forward onto Jonathan's chest. He played with his nipples a bit, and then worked his way up, licking and mouthing at the neck. A masculine chin seemed even more excitingly rough to his new, feminine face, so he nudged steadily across to get to Jonathan's mouth. Oh, that mouth! That ironical, clever mouth that could belong to no other person in the world but his Jonathan. He licked, and nibbled, and kissed, and Jonathan joined in rather enthusiastically. 

Then Jonathan sighed, and fell back. "Darling Bell, and darling Gilbert," he said affectionately. "I can't forget the body's hers, but I can't forget you're in there, either."

"How do we do it?" asked Mr Norrell. "That is, I think I am experiencing a rather urgent need for _something,_ although I doubt I have the clearest idea _what."_

"Ah. Forgive me. I should definitely be taking better care of you, especially since you've been waiting all night." And Mr Strange simply slipped his big hand down to the mysterious organ between Mr Norrell's legs, and pulled what felt a little like lips (which seemed oddly swollen) a little apart. The underside of a knuckle was rubbing, in a quick, flicking gesture, across a very particular spot. It felt, most strangely, like the very crown of his eager prick, and it was wonderful. He screwed his eyes tight-shut and visualised himself spurting greedily--felt as though he'd never stop, and he could hear a woman, _screaming,_ and then the hand threatened to take itself away, and he shoved it down and went _again,_ and after a few moments _again,_ and then the feeling was just beginning to ebb, but he had another slow greedy come on Jonathan's hand, just because he could, and then he let go, panting and gasping and wrecked.

"M'throat's raw," he managed, between gasps. 

"Must be all the screaming," said Jonathan. 

"I don't...scream," he said indignantly, and then, "Did I really?"

"You did," said Jonathan. "I think you deserve a kiss, and a minute to breathe, after that. Was that two, or three?"

"Four," said Mr Norrell, in the interests of accuracy. "It's like being thirteen again, only more so." He thought. "If we could spend every minute of every hour of every day just doing that, I'd ask her to let us keep it. But the rest of the time I'd miss my crotchety, old, imperfect body." 

Mr Strange kissed him on top of his head. "So would I. I don't think I'm quite ready for the sight of Bell bent studiously over books of magic, even if there was a time in my life when I'd have loved nothing better."

Mr Norrell found that very reassuring. There was, and had always been, a realm where he and Mr Strange could follow each other. And it was a realm they were now inhabiting. 

"I'm tired," he complained. "I was tired to start with, and now I'm more so." He admired Mr Strange's beautiful body, which was not entirely tired (and appeared to have been somewhat rejuvenated by paying attention to him). 

"Would you like to do for me what I did for you?" suggested Mr Strange. "Then I could be comfortable too, and sleep."

"Would it not make more sense to do to me what men do to women?" said Mr Norrell. "I would only need to lie here while you performed, and I should not mind it at all."

Mr Strange giggled helplessly, and _oh, I am in deep,_ thought Mr Norrell, who had not felt so kindly towards a person who laughed since he went to school and discovered he was generally the butt of any given joke. He smiled back and waited to hear why that was silly. 

"All right, open yourself up ready, then," said Mr Strange. "Use your hand if you like."

Mr Norrell put his hand there. He found the "lips" and gently opened them. He found that tiny organ that had so unexpectedly been the source of so much pleasure, and touched it with a fingertip, and jumped slightly. Apparently it only felt very slightly uncomfortable if he was not in a condition of arousal, and touched it dry. But he assumed that the other thing would be a hole, a shape like a tunnel, so he moved his finger down a bit and tried to stab it briskly in. It almost bounced off. 

"Ow!" he said crossly. "Are you sure I am completely-made, Mr Strange, with no parts missing?"

"You are in fact quite similar to Bell herself, sir," explained Mr Strange. "When she was a virgin, she needed practice and exercise to admit a man. I cannot tell whether it is always the way, but from what she told me later, a woman's sheath is a little like a glove: until it has been opened by exercise of some kind it may lie flat between the surrounding organs as a set of involuted folds. Once she has opened it, used it to hold something, _stretched_ it, it then remembers how to open much more easily."

"So the act is considerably less passive than I believed," said Mr Norrell, nodding. He had no doubt he was blushing, and he had never learnt to observe these matters because he had seen no practical use for them in a life which he intended to keep as sequestered from women as possible, but it was all information. "So that is why it is not entirely sensible to embark upon losing me my virginity when we are both tired."

"My dear Gilbert, you always surprise me. You are so delicate in some of your expressions and habits, and yet you have such practicality when I teach you new notions."

"This is all extremely new to me, and you are the only guidance I have. Of course I shall rely upon your worldly knowledge." Mr Strange knew such a quantity of wicked, worldly things, and there was no Christian soul else but a world away. Only a fool would not learn from him (he was uneasily aware that he used to be that sort of fool in favour of his books, but time had changed him somewhat). 

"I shall endeavour to be worthy of it," Mr Strange said. "But, on a temporary basis, and in the interests of my own comfort, shall you try to do for me what I did for you, or shall I see to my own needs?"

Mr Norrell yawned, stretched, yet moved towards him. "Do let me touch. I have been wanting to feel you under my hand for such a long time."

"Really?" said Mr Strange, interested. "How long?"

"I think, since you did magic. It stirred feelings in me, sir. When I handed you a book, I felt naked, as though I were handing you a part of myself, and then..." He squirmed a little. "When I went to bed that night I could not stop thinking of you, and I took myself in hand, but it was not simply appetite." He put a hand on Mr Strange's shoulder. "Because then I dreamt of myself at home, and somehow I was handing my heart to you from the shelves at Hurtfew, and I knew I would never be the same again," he said in a small voice. 

Mr Strange drew him into a kiss. It was lovely. He slid his hand stealthily up Mr Strange's inner thigh, and fondled him, just the way he would always have assumed he never could. "Beautiful..." he breathed into Mr Strange's mouth. He did not merely mean that the engine of Mr Strange's ardour was impressively-made, which it was, rearing shamelessly to meet his hand (and beginning to quicken his own desires a little). Yes, he liked men who were, as the French would put it, "well-mounted", and the sheer size of it seemed more imposing now the hand he was using was narrowed to a feminine frame. But every part of Mr Strange seemed desirable to him now, and he felt just a little drunk with the ability to touch and sniff and lick wherever he pleased. 

He kept kissing, and fondling, and enjoying the firm, springy texture of it, and the wetness flowing from it. He brought a hand to his mouth for a moment, and licked. It was a curious flavour, but not unappealing.

"Not quite so delicate," said Mr Strange tightly. 

So he put both hands to work. It was very pleasing. He slipped down in the bed to have a good look. Mr Strange was fastidiously clean (which had had a not inconsiderable effect on his ability to resist John Childermass in the past. It was so much easier to resist any temptation to reach out if the man was habitually dirty and rough!) and although his colouring was made imperfect by a tan from his period abroad, it didn't seem distasteful, nor had it marred that fine, high-coloured prick. 

"Can I taste? Do people do that?" he asked, and was favoured with a gesture making him free of it. He licked slowly up one side, kissed his way over the tip, and licked down the other. It was quite delightful, especially since he could feel every throb and twitch from the eager member. 

"Usually when people do that, sir, it is to please the recipient, not simply to explore."

"Eh? Oh, sorry!" said Mr Norrell, and tried to swallow it whole. He gave up on this quickly, after choking a little. 

"My fault," said Jonathan Strange. "It was clear that you needed instruction, yet I had only told you what _not_ to do, not what _to_ do. Try again, and keep your hand tight round the base so I do not forget myself, while you lick and suck as firmly as you like at the tip.

When he had a better idea how to go on, Mr Norrell was more successful. His jaws were getting a little uncomfortable--the _size_ of the thing!--and he was not entirely clear he had the trick of it, but it was so exciting, to know the effect he was having. He moaned round it, happily, and kept his one hand round the shaft while the other played with Jonathan's balls. 

Jonathan did his best to warn him, but all Mr Norrell said was a rather abstracted, "Ah?" round his mouthful, before settling to swallow the result. By the copious flow, and the loud groaning as Mr Strange found his relief, it was eminently satisfactory, and he kept sucking gently until Mr Strange made a slight protesting noise and pushed him away. 

"Was that all right?" said Mr Strange. 

"It was very nice, although I wished I had three hands!" he said. 

"I'm not _that_ big!" Mr Strange exclaimed. 

"That's not what I meant," said Mr Norrell. 

"Mm? You can't mean you want to already," said Mr Strange.

"It's your fault for being quite unconscionably desirable, sir! I merely had to look at you. And then the feel of it, and the taste..."

Mr Strange seemed to find that amusing, "Yes, but after _four!"_

"I doubt I have more than one arrow left in the quiver, in any case," Mr Norrell added, with a sniff. "It must run out at some point."

"Actually, I am quite impressed," said Mr Strange. "Several women I have known could do that, but not before they had had considerable experience."

"Finally I achieve distinction in a physical practice, and it is not something I could admit to in polite company--or indeed any," said Mr Norrell, a trifle mournfully. He had no desire to spend his time dancing, or riding, or drinking, but if he had had a natural talent for doing the things other men did, it might have made people like him.

Mr Strange hugged him. "You'll have to settle for impressing me." Even the hug was enough to excite him; Mr Norrell said, "Oh, _please!"_ and squirmed until the hungry thing between his legs was pressed firmly against Mr Strange's thigh. Quite beyond embarrassment (which would no doubt turn up later), he twisted and rubbed and wriggled and even bounced up and down a little, trying to get it in just the right place.

"Stay still a minute!" said Mr Strange, and put his fingertips where Mr Norrell was so soaking wet, then slipped one wet fingertip exactly onto that private place and stroked across it repeatedly. Apparently targeting the d--n thing precisely was exactly what was necessary, because (almost crying with relief, and pressing the finger down _hard)_ he felt the long, steady, blissful spasms of it roll through him.

"I apologise," said Mr Strange. "You weren't joking about needing that." He sucked his finger reminiscently.

"I don't often joke about...anything," said Mr Norrell, around an enormous yawn. 

"No, quite right. Go to sleep now," said Mr Strange.

"No cats!" he mumbled. 

"None at all. You're safe, Gilbert; go to sleep."

Mr Norrell put his arms around the beautiful warmth of Mr Strange, and went to sleep. 

 

The next day, the cat came back. It arrived neatly in the middle of the bedroom floor first thing in the morning (or, depending on one's viewpoint, last thing at night), and said, "Have you seen fourteen blue mice and a song-thrush?"

Mr Norrell emitted a strangled squeak, and hid behind Jonathan. 

Jonathan yawned, and said, "What is it _now,_ Bell, for heaven's sake? It's not even dawn....oh. Look, it's an easy mistake to make out of a sound sleep. I'll get that beast out for you first, and then I'll apologise."

"Who are you calling 'that beast', you _ape?"_ exclaimed the cat, indignantly. 

Jonathan sighed, and rumpled his hair. "If I see any blue mice or song-thrushes, I'll--What shall I do, sir Cat?"

"Well, _obviously,_ call out, 'Cat, Cat, Cat, I have your prey/Take them from me, sir, I pray!'"

"Rhyming a word with its exact homophone is very poor form," muttered Mr Norrell from behind his protector, where he lay with his eyes closed. Magicians had to know a reasonable amount about poetry for incantations.

The cat hissed, and Mr Norrell squeaked. 

"Please, sir Cat, if you would," said Mr Strange politely. 

The cat said, "Very well!"

"Is it gone yet?" His eyes were staying tight-shut until he was certain.

"It vanished in as much as a candle-flicker, just now."

Mr Norrell gave a sigh. "I'm still sulking. What did I ever do to you to deserve being taken for your wife, sir?"

He was even crosser when Mr Strange laughed.

"I'm sorry, Gilbert. But you must admit that although it's not your fault you do happen to be dressed as her, and straight out of a sound sleep I just reacted out of habit. Now, let's have a nice cuddle, and I shall tell you I am very sorry for it."

"I'm ignoring you." He sighed a little, as Mr Strange got both arms round him. He buried his hands in Mr Strange's wild hair, and tugged a little. 

"That's you being cross, is it?"

"Still ignoring you." He nibbled Mr Strange's neck, rather harder than he would do it in a better temper. 

"Still sorry for it," said Mr Strange. How could the man be so d----d ungrudging? Mr Norrell himself could very rarely manage to react to one of his own mistakes other than crossly, and awkwardly, and with very bad faith.

"Still ignoring you!" said Mr Norrell breathlessly, through a giggle, as Mr Strange teased at his sides with delicately-prodding fingers, and Mr Strange kissed him on the corner of his mouth. 

"And I _hate_ being tickled. The laughter is just a physical reflex," said Mr Norrell crossly. 

"D--n. Another thing the pair of you have in common, and I'd so love to hear you laugh." He took his hands away immediately. "I fear she had to kick me several times before I understood that, but you may have the benefit of being taken seriously."

Mr Norrell blinked mistrustfully and said, "Really?"

"Yes, really."

"When I was small, my governess--well, I suppose she was more of a nanny, but I thought 'governess' sounded more grown-up--she never understood me when I tried to tell her that. She always went on trying to tickle me, and I had not the words to express, 'Even if I laugh, I still would much rather you did not'"

"I'm sorry. Even children deserve to be taken seriously for things like that. You're allowed not to like something, even if people think you seem to."

Mr Norrell gave a great sigh, and gave up his grudge. "All right, you win, I'm not sulking."

"Are you sure you're quite all right, sir? I expected you to keep it going for ages."

"Shut up and kiss me."

They spent quite a long time at it, because it was so pleasant. Long, lazy kisses; easy tongue-strokes; occasional nibbling. He loved the smoothness of it, the way it flowed like a river, soothing and quenching any misapprehension among their feelings with generous ardour. 

When they stopped, he was rather surprised when Mr Strange said, "Want me to finger your button?" and the thing didn't leap to attention. He looked a little worriedly between his legs, and said, "Do you think you broke it?"

Mr Strange laughed helplessly, but said, "I'm not surprised if it'll take a bit of time to wake up after last night's adventures."

"Well, I did say I thought I only had one go left."

Mr Strange gave him another long, lingering kiss, and said, "Quite right you were, then. Now, would you like breakfast-in-bed before we look for some mice?"

 _"You_ look for some mice, Mr Strange, but, yes, breakfast would be welcome. I feel the strangest desire for a hearty breakfast."

"No gruel?" said Mr Strange.

Mr Norrell shuddered gently at the thought of his normal soothing bowl of sweet gruel, and said, "Kippers. And eggs. And sausages. And toast."

"Well, you've definitely got her stomach, for now," teased Mr Strange. 

"But Mr Strange!" exclaimed Mr Norrell, scandalised, "she's a lady!"

"With healthy appetites, as I thought you'd discovered last night."

Mr Norrell's stomach punctuated this with a regrettable noise. "It does seem like a very long time since dinner," he said plaintively. 

"I'm no gentleman to tease you so. Of course I will fetch you breakfast."

He brought an excellent breakfast as requested, and Mr Norrell enjoyed it thoroughly. 

Then, after bathing and dressing, Mr Norrell settled to read peacefully in a chair by the fire, and after some while reading together, Mr Strange went to examine their makeshift chronometer. 

"Good lord!" exclaimed Mr Strange, "We've already had five days of our week."

"Ah?" said Mr Norrell mildly, preoccupied with his book. 

"Meaning," said Mr Strange pointedly, "that we only have these two days before you return to your customary form."

"Ah," said Mr Norrell, and marked his place with a bookmark, putting the book tidily aside. Since he maintained his personal hygiene with a strict attention to washing--happening to find either stays or drawers too fiddly to be worth learning for such a short time--he merely lifted his skirt obligingly and said, "Come on, then." 

That really seemed to surprise Mr Strange. And arouse him. 

"Is it too wicked?" said Mr Norrell nervously. "Is it something people don't do?"

"No...it's more that with Bell I had a little warning while she dealt with her underclothes. You're just all there, no waiting."

Mr Norrell thought of that for a moment. It didn't sound too bad. He sat down awkwardly in the chair, thighs spread. 

He was a little shocked when Mr Strange bent his head and knelt for him, kissing him softly on the nether-lips, fingering him a little apart and licking neatly up the seam of him until he opened effortlessly. The tongue worked in him softly, tiny little proddings until he squirmed to get it all over him. 

Moaning slightly complainingly, he opened as far as he could, and Mr Strange gave him bigger, softer tongue-strokes, going right in: evidently his organ _was_ prepared to open, given the chance and not being poked by impertinent fingers. 

Mr Strange lifted up enough to say, "Your cunt's delicious like this," and went back to it. 

_Well! That's something I never expected to hear!_ Mr Norrell thought, panting as Mr Strange went at him with messy, hungry, juicy noises that made him feel even more excited. Shocked that such a disgraceful word--associated with women--should be aimed so crudely at him, except that just now he was feeling terribly, terribly crude. 

After what seemed (at least to the impatient Mr Norrell) like quite a while enjoying him that way, Mr Strange lifted his face.

Mr Norrell whined. He did _not_ want to stop. 

"Don't worry." Mr Strange got a wet finger down to his soaking...cunt, and worked it in--fingertip at first, then a whole sliding finger, slow and easy, as he got accustomed. 

Mr Norrell complained that it didn't feel quite as nice as tongue, and Mr Strange chuckled, and said, "It's my wicked plan, Gilbert, so I can do this." And he lowered his mouth again, so now his wet mouth went exactly to that eager little button, and alternated kisses and tiny licks just there, while keeping his finger at work. 

At this point Mr Norrell lost some of his command of the situation. He might have begged, and certainly started screaming again, and could feel a fierce clenching where the finger was. Nothing mattered except getting all of it, and going again, and again, and more, until he was so spent he could do nothing but breathe.

"I think that went rather well, don't you?" said Mr Strange. 

"About six," muttered Mr Norrell, and then, guiltily, "I shouldn't have been greedy."

"No complaints here," said Mr Strange. 

"I'm too tired to do much for you, I mean," he mumbled. 

"Can you manage to kiss me while I do myself?"

Mr Norrell reached out, eyes still closed, and pulled him close for a kiss. He even  
managed to open his eyes after a moment, because Mr Strange was a lovely sight to see, whether he was tired or not. 

The flavour of his woman-form did not please him as much as a man's taste, but that was immaterial given the way it pleased Mr Strange. That clever mouth slackened, and moaned, and Mr Strange sucked at his tongue. 

While he didn't have quite the energy to finish the job, he slid his hand down to tease Mr Strange's balls and thighs. 

"Mm, lovely light fingertips," said Mr Strange appreciatively. "I'm close, just keep teasing me, going to explode, _yes!_ " and groaned deeply as he finished. "Ah, that's better."

There was a distressing bump in the smoothness of their intimacies then, as Mr Norrell found how soaked the chair was. No matter how good it had been, and how much he seemed to be embracing his inner harlot, he was Not All Right with the idea he'd wet himself, and he said so.

Mr Strange was equally surprised, but less troubled. When his initial exclamation of "Well, Bell never did _that!"_ was very poorly-received, he moved Mr Norrell gently over on the chair, scooped up a little of the wetness on his finger, and then sniffed hard at it before licking tentatively. "Well, I've never tasted piss--unless one counts bad Portuguese wine--"

Mr Norrell hit him with the cushion. 

"...but that definitely tastes like a woman's pleasure to me."

Mr Norrell sighed in relief, and got up, pulling his skirts down. "I had no idea they did that, but this appears to be my week for learning more about women than I ever expected to know."

"I was married to one for some while, sir, and it was a new thing to me," said Mr Strange. 

They made a pot of tea, which would have been as unexceptionable as usual, except that Mr Norrell almost dropped their precious pot of cream on the floor when fourteen blue mice ran out in front of them. 

"Sir, must I remind you of the difficulties of re-supplying ourselves with the things we eat and drink every day?" said Mr Strange, as he improvised a humane mousetrap out of a spell of containment and a spare bowl, and whistled a curious tune whose purpose only became obvious when a song-thrush fell fluttering down to join the mice. 

"I know the peculiar oeconomy of fairy-markets disdains anything as simple, natural and practicable as money, sir," said Mr Norrell, with a sniff. "Yet I should like to see what one is supposed to do in a condition of momentary shock. And don't laugh at me!" he added crossly. 

"I wouldn't dream of it," said Mr Strange, with a fond smile. "I know you cannot help it, any more than Bell couldn't help _not_ shrieking at mice!"

Mr Norrell sat back in his chair sulkily as Mr Strange came out with the appropriate doggerel to call the Cat. He pretended he wasn't hiding behind his book and looking out nervously. 

The Cat was extremely pleased at Mr Strange's prompt action. Standing carefully on his three rear paws, he made a leg as politely as a courtier before returning to his natural pose. "What would you have of me in return?"

"My friend would like to see somewhat less of you, sir. He cannot help his nerves. As for myself, I would like to know of something that would prove an acceptable form of currency at the fairy-market that would not cost more than Christians wish to pay."

"Well, you have a virgin there," said the Cat. "I believe such items are quite popular these days." He showed his fangs, or possibly grinned. 

"Absolutely not!" said Mr Strange indignantly. "Quite apart from the moral question, the lady will not be a lady in two days' time."

"...and more pertinently will not be a virgin in two hours' time," added Mr Norrell firmly. 

The Cat glanced pointedly at the library shelves. "Have you a copy of the _Certain Differences_ by Thomas Tryland?" _Certain Differences between Fairy and Mortal Magic_ was not only extremely verbose, which would not necessarily have put Mr Norrell off, but appeared entirely devoted to a scholarly discussion of the aforementioned differences, which seemed a lot more useful in their current conditions than it had when he acquired it.

Mr Norrell got up immediately. "I believe I remember the shelf-reference, yes. It is not a volume I felt the need to peruse when there were so many more informative works."

The Cat said, "If you had read it, it is clear on the spells that Christian magicians can work more readily than fairies, few as those are, and the sorts of things that Christians find it easier to think of than fairies do, so they might offer to enchant a fiddle to play itself with different tunes, or such a thing. Maybe even popular enough for a cow?" he added to Mr Norrell. 

"Thank you, sir," said Mr Norrell solemnly. He had been missing his morning cup of chocolate since they had been reduced to eking out whatever milk or cream they could acquire (with difficulty) from the fairy-market. He got up and executed a clumsy bow in the direction of the Cat. 

"Well, if you're going to be busy now with the tom ape serving the queen ape," said the Cat, "I shall gratify your desire..." (it appeared to leer, with fangs, which was quite as disquieting as it sounds) "...by taking myself elsewhere." It stood up to its rear paws again, taking the bowl of its prey neatly in the crook of one "arm", and vanished.

Mr Norrell found his shelf-reference for the book (nearly where he had thought it was; good) and placed the book on the arm of his chair. "Are you coming to bed, then?" he asked. 

"What, already? I've seen to your needs several times this morning."

"No, not that!" said Mr Norrell. "I am perfectly comfortable and happy to spend the afternoon reading, and we could satisfy each other perfectly well in this chair if we _were_ in a hurry, but our dubious feline acquaintance reminded me that we need to make sure to get rid of my unnecessary encumbrance. Presumably we need a bed for that."

"Well, you're making it sound so unappealing I think I've just changed my mind," said Jonathan. "We can have an afternoon's reading, then consider it later."

Mr Norrell tried to do what he believed to be considered a languishing feminine look, as he said, "Oh, Mr Strange! Would you really let me be snatched away by the fairies when you could so easily protect me?"

Mr Strange laughed, "Doing it altogether too brown, Gilbert!" but gave him a hug and a warm kiss. 

"What does that mean, sir?" said Mr Norrell, who occasionally had difficulties with figures of speech, especially when they seemed to come with unexpected physical gestures.

"I believe it means that your attempts at feminine wiles are so unconvincing as to be endearing, and if you actually do want me I'm more willing to listen."

"I don't think I need you urgently, Mr Strange, although I don't necessarily seem to know that unless I try, but that might actually be a more propitious occasion to make the attempt. When I'm...excited, I seem to find it spectacularly difficult to think, so maybe we could just explore my, ah..." (he _could not_ call it a cunt when he wasn't out of his wits with excitement) "...without touching my, er..." (oh, what had Mr Strange called it? "Button", oh, that just sounded too silly for words!)

Mr Strange's lips twitched. "So you'd like me to explore your what-d'-you-call-it..."

"...I hate you..." muttered Mr Norrell. 

"...while leaving your thingummyjig alone."

Mr Norrell suppressed an impulse to stamp his foot. "And it is low, sir, to make mock of someone who has never had the chance to learn the appropriate vocabulary."

"Forgive me," said Mr Strange, looking him seriously in the eye. "I often can't resist the impulse to joke, and I should have realised you might not find it easy to use particularly coarse language, which left you at a bit of a loss. Anyway, I don't know the real name for 'thingummyjig', either. I just called it 'the button' but I can't see that in anatomy textbooks, can you? And you look very charming when you blush."

Mr Norrell buried his face in Mr Strange's shirt-front. 

Mr Strange kissed his ear gently and whispered, "Come on, let's go to bed!"

Picking up the slow-lantern they had enchanted to burn at a tenth of the rate of a normal one (the only side-effect was the flame seemed unnervingly to lurch every so often rather than flicker, and didn't cast as far as normal) Mr Norrell headed for the bedroom. 

He was rather surprised that Mr Strange lit the fire and some candles as well as leaving the slow-lantern on. 

"Do we need so much light to go to bed?" They didn't usually choose so much excess. 

Mr Strange looked a little embarrassed. "Well, I haven't had a really good look at you yet...and don't make that face, this _is_ you at the moment!"

Mr Norrell sighed complainingly and spread himself over the bed, arms and legs wide. 

"Oh, look at _you!"_ breathed Mr Strange, admiringly. "I can tell it's you, you're the anti-coquette, really, but you're still so gorgeous, all pink-and-white." He sat down on the edge of the bed and played with Mr Norrell's breasts for a while, which proved surprisingly interesting. He had never believed them to have an amatory purpose (for the person attached; he had not managed to escape the knowledge that men (not him) liked looking at them). He was beginning to feel just a little...fluttery, watching Mr Strange admire them and feeling him tease them. He sighed happily as Mr Strange kissed the very tips, and they seemed to stiffen like tiny pricks. 

Then Mr Strange bent down and began to pay attention to the point of the game. Obediently he went straight for the inner folds and stroked cleverly until Mr Norrell seemed to discover secret reserves of liquid remaining, and just kept working him (with the sort of squishy noises that he would have found appallingly embarrassing in his right mind) until he had two fingers, then three fingers in there, and there was no longer any doubt that the organ was flexible and capacious. 

Then Mr Strange took the fingers away (and Mr Norrell gave a sad little gasp at being empty), and started to rub the very tip of his prick just there, wonderfully blunt and soft-skinned and _hard_ where the opening was. The lips seemed to be puffing-up, and the space inside seemed to swell, as if it was bigger. He wriggled, fighting to climb that enticing prick, and whined a little as it seemed to hurt to stretch. It wanted to be _smooth,_ and _full,_ and _what was he doing wrong now?_

Mr Strange said, "Don't push it. You don't get a prize for doing it all at once."

Mr Norrell snarled a little. He was of the opinion that the prize was Mr Strange's person, and there was no sensible reason to deprive himself of it when it was right there in front of him. But since Mr Strange seemed to have all that worldly knowledge, he supposed he might as well listen. 

So he relaxed, and Mr Strange had the head of it tease him, and that sensitive groove that gave so much pleasure to a man was rubbing just at the entrance to his body. The rest of it was more difficult, but Mr Strange eased it in, taking all the time in the world, and after a while it stopped burning and feeling as though he was going to be split in half quite so much.

"So tight!" gasped Mr Strange. 

"Is that good or bad?"

"It'll be a bit of a while before I can give you a good hard pounding. I think this time...we'd better take it easy." He brought a hand between them, and Mr Norrell discovered he was still extremely wet, and there were more noises, and he wriggled a bit, tried to get more. Suddenly Jonathan's fingertip slid in beside his prick, where there wasn't any room, and Mr Norrell felt faint with the excess of it. The finger slid upwards and kept stroking surely across his "button", making it throb and flutter, and he clenched like a fist around Jonathan's length, swelled hotly open, clamp-and-open, doing it again and again in a long rolling stroke until he was satisfied. 

He sighed with utter content.

"Was that all right?" said Jonathan, easing away from him. 

Mr Norrell made a small sound of protest, because he had been enjoying the warmth. "Mm? Is it your turn?" he said, without opening his eyes. 

"Oh, I went when you decided to squeeze the life out of me," said Jonathan, "but I'm just checking if it was all right for you."

"You don't usually find it difficult to tell. And I doubt the look on my face is ambiguous."

"Well, it just wasn't six times with added screaming," said Jonathan. "Which I thought was your habit."

Mr Norrell sighed. "The mathematics is not exiguous. Four times, first, and an extra for luck. _Six_ times earlier today, which is probably ambitious, and you should remember I told you I didn't feel...needy, after that. Once is perfectly adequate for now. I had a very good time even if I did not feel moved to howl my head off. And we have put off any Fairies who might feel impelled to snatch me for my virginity."

Mr Strange smiled. "Very well, then. Do you feel like having a go at Tryland?"

"I'm hungry again," said Mr Norrell, "which is your fault for wearing me out. Do we have any roast left?" When they had both cleaned the results of the recent activities from their persons, Mr Norrell read while Mr Strange went to see about dinner. There was enough roast, heated by a spell, to do them both very well. 

After dinner, they had a pleasant few hours arguing about the best magical bribery to offer to fairies, and leaning together over the book, and snuggling by the fire. It was one of Mr Norrell's favourite ways to spend an evening, and it was so nice this way! Not only being able to have arguments without so much at stake, but being able to feel close without being disturbed by a desire he had to conceal. Just lovely, lovely Jonathan, and books, and a fire. Together with the absence of felines, it was everything he wanted. 

Then they went to bed. They slept in each other's arms, which was delightful.

Deep in the night, Mr Strange caught him in a firm embrace, said, "oh, I do love you!" and settled back to sleep. 

Mr Norrell shivered. That was either very good or very bad.

 

The next day, they woke up all over each other. Mr Norrell kept fingering, and nibbling, and embracing, and Mr Strange responded with enthusiasm. This time, relaxed from sleep, and aroused from proximity, it seemed to take relatively little trouble for Mr Strange to slide into him. This time, Mr Strange managed to work up to a firm stroke, but his impulsivity got the better of him, and he went off rather too fast. Not that Mr Norrell minded. He gave Jonathan a lovely long kiss, and fell back sighing happily as Jonathan pulled out. 

Then Jonathan put his hand down to him, and he said, "No," and wriggled away. 

Jonathan looked wounded. 

"I mean, 'not now'," he explained. "We only have the rest of the day with me in command of this unusual form. Sooner than squander my resources, I should like you to tease me, and coax me, and frustrate my desires all day."

Jonathan looked puzzled. He sighed, and explained the obvious. "Then tonight you may take me to bed, and give it an exercise in mathematics. See if you can get the thing to count higher than six."

Jonathan looked positively wicked. "What a lovely idea. I look forward to reminding you of it." He slipped a finger into Mr Norrell's organ anyway, and began stroking him. 

"What did I just tell you--do you never listen?" sighed Mr Norrell. 

"I'm just not going to touch that hot little button of yours. You can take a fair amount of attention like that?" Jonathan started to move. 

"Mm," sighed Mr Norrell, preparing to see how much. It would have been quite frustrating if he hadn't asked for it. It _was_ frustrating. The last few days hadn't taught him to wait. He moaned. 

"Not yet," said Jonathan, and kept at him. He could feel it getting more sensitive, smoother, wetter. It felt about an inch down from perfect. The only thing stopping him from moving Jonathan's hand in a more gratifying direction was pride, so he tried to wriggle subtly. 

"Still not yet," said Jonathan. 

"Can I touch you?" It might, at any rate, be a distraction. 

Instead, Jonathan moved his hands, and Mr Norrell gasped a little with irritated greed. Couldn't the man just keep it steady long enough to... long enough to...? _Apparently not,_ he decided, as Jonathan fondled his breasts in a delightfully-unsatisfying way that made him squirm.

"Bell could manage it this way, you know. She actually came off from having her breasts handled once."

He made a wordless sound of irritation. Invidious comparisons were unwelcome. 

"But," said Jonathan, "that was only the day I came home from the Peninsula, so it might have been a special occasion. I think we were both fast."

"Do I have to kiss you to stop you talking, Jonathan?" he inquired, rolling close to him and reaching out to touch. He didn't especially want to hear about this body's previous inhabitant. 

Jonathan permitted him maybe ten minutes of embracing and kissing, which was wonderful. He wondered about stealthily frotting himself on any available part of Jonathan, but decided Jonathan might notice. 

Then Jonathan moved away, and said, "A good start, I think. What would you like for your breakfast?"

"Would you like me to take my turn preparing breakfast?" Mr Norrell thought, _at least being hungry's taking my mind off it._

_"No,_ Gilbert, I'd swear you can burn marmalade."

"But marmalade requires no preparation," he said, confused. 

"Exactly!" said Jonathan, laughing. "Do you still want a hearty breakfast? Or are you back on the gruel?"

"Oh, proper food, thank you. I shall rather miss this body's ability to digest absolutely everything." He knew people said or thought things about his minor digestive upsets; one of the things that put him best in charity with John Childermass was once overhearing him being perfectly straightforward about his (Mr Norrell's) indigestion, while one of the maids had laughed about his "blowing hot-and-cold" approach to eating. If he _had_ been putting it on for effect, he'd have lost interest years ago.

They washed and dressed, then went down to breakfast. Sausages, eggs, toast, and marmalade. It was very pleasant, apart from having to dissuade Mr Strange from dipping a book--an actual _book!_ \--in the eggs trying to pass it across the table. Really, he must be quite dreadfully enamoured with Mr Strange, not to want to cut all ties with him having seen the way he treated books. 

After breakfast, they sat in the library and argued about the best bits of Tryland while Mr Norrell tried not to be too distracted by Mr Strange's proximity. This was difficult, given that Mr Strange seemed to be taking all opportunities for cuddling close affectionately. 

"Could we pause and kiss for a while?"

"Are you _sure_ I can distract you from reading?"

Mr Norrell thought. _Frankly I blame this body. Did you notice your wife's ability at sustained concentration?_ He did not say this, as he was beginning to grasp the wisdom (in terms of getting his desires met) of not coming out with certain statements, and anything that could be construed as a criticism of Mrs Strange was one. This was an unfair restriction, of course; what he actually meant was that the sustained concentration necessary for scholarship was rare, rather than Mrs Strange being particularly dull. _I daresay she's no worse than any other female person._

So he just nodded, and said, "Perfectly sure, sir," and kissed him. But Mr Strange only permitted him the pleasure of kissing for about half an hour. 

Mr Norrell was beginning to regret his ambitious amatory project. 

They went on reading, then. This body was definitely unaccustomed to sustained scholarship. He wanted to pause to rest his eyes after the first four hours. He wanted to look out of the window: he himself normally ignored the illusion-spell Mr Strange had worked up from a fine piece of _chinoiserie_ to look a bit like a landscape, but Mrs Strange's body seemed a little oppressed and seemed to want the day. He wanted to nuzzle up to Mr Strange and enjoy himself, as well, even if he would have to wait until bedtime for the natural conclusion.

Mr Strange put the books neatly to one side. "If you're going to wriggle, we can break off for a while, for a bit of a kiss and cuddle."

It was very nice. More than nice, although he seemed to have his mind taken off words a bit. Lots of kissing--he adored that, and Mr Strange was good at it, having a clever, restlessly-inquisitive mouth. He liked it when Mr Strange gently used his teeth on his neck, as well. More kissing and fondling. After a while, he took his mouth from the kiss for long enough to snarl, "Touch it _now!"_

Mr Strange laughed. He said, "Oh, no, sir. You are in a position of seniority over me, and I recollect quite well you asked me to tease, and coax, and leave you unfinished until this evening."

"I know," said Mr Norrell. "I'm just having difficulty remembering why. At least put your finger in it?" he suggested, feeling positively hollowed-out with desire. 

"Not when you're in this state, sir. I should hate to leave you short of the fullest satisfaction simply because you're a little impulsive." And indeed, after a while, Mr Strange said, "Let us go back to our books."

Mr Norrell squirmed, and said, "What do ladies do as regards underclothing?"

Mr Strange said, "Mm? I rather thought you'd taken the admirably-pragmatic approach of being no lady, seeing as it's for such a short time."

Mr Norrell sighed, and went to his room to seek out his accustomed masculine small-clothes. Although they did not fit perfectly, they eased the present threat of being found...dripping on anything. 

Mr Strange looked at him with some sympathy when he came back. He glared in return. The embarrassment seemed to cool his ardour somewhat, and he settled with a book for a while. Luckily, there were the forgotten notes of a quite entertaining side-project involving weather-forecasting. That was a little more ambitious than Mr Strange's project to see what the weather was actually doing at the moment, but it might be even more useful. 

Mr Strange, adaptable as ever, joined in the conversation and took a few notes of his own, and they reached a cordial understanding that they could wait for handling each other until later. 

For dinner, Mr Strange had managed to recreate quite a flavoursome stew he had eaten abroad. Mr Norrell found spices rather odd, but after a while accustomed himself to them rather happily, since the curious sensation that his tongue was about to burst into flames was a passing illusion. 

More books. By what might have been about nine in the evening, if it was an evening, Mr Norrell had finished cobbling together some notes on weather-forecasting, although it was a shoddy piece of work by his usual standards. He announced, "I'm going to bed," and Mr Strange said, "Mm? I'll be up in a minute." But he looked as though he were trying not to laugh. 

"Don't laugh at me," said Mr Norrell, who never _had_ learned to bear it.

"Sorry, I wasn't. It was just as though we'd swapped places. You're usually the one who can't be pried out of a book to go to bed."

Mr Norrell sniffed, and said, "If you don't want to..."

Mr Strange said, "I shall be up directly," and kissed his hand.

Mr Norrell went to bed naked for once. He could always put on the night-shirt later. 

Mr Strange only took ten minutes to finish his notes, and when he flung the bed-clothes back, looked surprised and delighted to see Mr Norrell...if not as nature made him, certainly as the Fairy had made him. He stripped himself of any clothes almost as fast as Mr Norrell had, and said, "I trust your experiment in waiting has lasted long enough," but did not wait for an answer. 

Mr Norrell held his arms out, and then Jonathan was in his arms, and then Jonathan was in him, and there was a lot of panting, and thrusting, and sweating. Jonathan didn't seem to have a hand free because of all the thrusting. Mr Norrell swore, tucked his own hand awkwardly between them, rubbed a fingertip just right and screamed, clamping ferociously on Jonathan, and fell back, gasping. 

"Go on, sweetheart, have as much as you like," crooned Jonathan into his ear, licking his ear, and he was flying _again,_ falling again, feeling his heartbeat slow, kept his finger moving, kept clamping on Jonathan-- _hope he stays hard long enough!_ \--and just kept going, one wave of it rolling into the next. 

_Sleep,_ he thought after it seemed to stop, and did.

When he woke up, after a few minutes, he reported, "As a mathematical experiment it was a dismal failure."

"You forgot to count?"

"I forgot several things, possibly up to my own name and the existence of numbers."

"What was it like as an experience?"

Mr Norrell smiled, and said, "Unforgettable." He gave a huge yawn. So did Mr Strange. Moments later, they were asleep in each other's arms. 

 

After a very good night's sleep, and more cuddling, and a delicious breakfast, they went to the library and read. 

The Fairy turned up. "I see it went very well," she said.

Mr Norrell shuddered, and trusted she _hadn't_ seen. 

Mr Strange smiled at her, "I can report with perfect truth, madam, that we enjoyed it hugely and are extremely pleased to be returned to the normal state of affairs. Christians are not made for such extreme changes."

She appeared confused. "But it isn't so much of a change. I did not change him into a Fairy, or a dragon, or even a cat, just into a slightly different-looking Christian."

"Nevertheless," said Mr Norrell (shuddering at the thought of 'cat'), "slight as the differences are, to you, I would be delighted to be restored to my imperfect self." He thought a minute. "Only would you be so kind as to restore me with an empty stomach? I fear I may have difficulty digesting the breakfast I took this morning."

"Oh, if you like!" She gestured carelessly, and Mr Norrell felt a most odd sensation run over him. He felt peculiarly hairy (which was odd, since he'd never been particularly hairy for a man), and there was a sudden momentary sense of inversion at his groin and at his chest as things respectively appeared and disappeared. As promised, he felt distinctly empty. But the oddness of the change only lasted a second; he felt his familiarly short, plain, male self settle into place, and he was smiling. It was so nice to be back!

He scratched his head, which was cold. "May I trouble you to see what you have done with my wig, madam?"

"Oh, I knew there was something! I do not see why you people can't simply grow your hair if you require hair--he certainly has no trouble with it!"

"At my age I would have difficulty readjusting my accustomed habit, madam." He sighed in relief as it was returned, and straightened it carefully. He had not entirely trusted her not to give him, say, a lady's style. 

He bowed carefully. "I am grateful for your kindness with our wishes, madam."

"And so am I!" said Mr Strange, bowing rather more floridly. "We would never have been quite happy with the situation. He is so accustomed to regular habits, and--I suppose--if we ever return to Christendom, it would be very hard to explain!"

She smiled, and said, "I must return to my child, but...I am glad that you are both happy!" She winked out, in a flash of light. 

"Well, shall we return to our books?" said Mr Strange.

"When I am not so particularly hungry, please." Mr Norrell sighed. After trying a variety of interesting foods, the prospect of gruel sounded a little dull.

"I'd better get you another breakfast, then," said Mr Strange. 

"I hope it is not too much trouble, sir?"

Mr Strange smiled. "Probably less bothersome for both of us than having to cope with you having galloping indigestion all day. You're never shy about expressing yourself when things aren't right." He went out, and Mr Norrell waited in the dining-room until he came back with a steaming bowl.

Mr Norrell philosophically took a spoonful. It was lovely. "But how did you get it to taste nice?" he exclaimed. "Was it a spell?"

"By no means, sir. I discovered a set of bottles of spices, that no doubt your servants hadn't troubled to try you with, given the frequency of your complaints. A tiny trace of cinnamon, a little cloves, some honey, and just a dash of cream."

"Well! Thank you for that! I had been a little dreading the dullness after a week of flavours." He polished it off rather quicker than his usual habit.

"I am glad you were so diplomatic with the lady, sir."

"I have learned a little, since the Incident," said Mr Norrell. 

"I believe," said Mr Strange, "that unlike his erstwhile Lordship of Lost-hope, the lady had kind intentions at heart. She was willing to listen."

"I have no idea what her intention would have been for me. Clearly you want your wife back, so I could see that it might _seem_ to please you, but I have never in my life desired anything to do with a lady. Including becoming one," he added firmly. 

"Let me know if you figure it out," said Mr Strange. 

Mr Norrell sighed. The experience had been delightful, but it had still only given them a simulacrum of their own desires. Mr Strange, being naturally sanguine in humour, might not be so unhappy, but he himself had lost something he had never thought to have, and he could not conceal from himself any longer that he loved Jonathan with all his heart, and mind, and body. With everything that he was. None of it had been an artefact of the transformation--a mere reflection of Mrs Strange's feelings--as he'd momentarily wondered. Because it was all still with him. 

But they went back to their books for the rest of the day. Mr Norrell did not lift his nose from the book for some time, and managed to work up quite a creditable piece of work on the weather-forecasting spell. He took out the noted section on visibility--in Eternal Darkness they couldn't do much with that--and tweaked the sections on wind direction  
(to add "up" and "down"), wind speed, and rain ("rain of rain" was actually relatively uncommon, so it was necessary to add the nature of the precipitation). 

But maybe he hadn't been _quite_ right about Mrs Strange's body being weaker at sustained concentration. He had to keep fighting off the impulse to ask Mr Strange to cuddle up for some kissing, and, to be quite honest, the desire for more. It was even worse knowing that Mr Strange would have been prepared for an intimate relationship if he'd only remained a woman, but he hadn't had the resolution to change his life so drastically. He doubted he'd ever have been quite comfortable as a woman, even though the benefits were considerable. 

For dinner, they had more of Mr Strange's exotic stew. Mr Norrell was glad to have a small portion, with bread and some vegetables, because the spicing was a little hot for him in his right body. He ate cautiously, but believed he had managed to dodge the threat of indigestion. He had to admit it was pleasant, if hot.

Mr Strange was looking at him fondly.

"Have I caught something on my teeth, sir?"

"No, it's simply..." Mr Strange looked a bit uncomfortable. "I think I'm becoming accustomed to you enjoying your food, and it's rather sweet. I was so unused to you permitting yourself to enjoy anything that is not a book."

Mr Norrell smiled awkwardly at him. The idea was reminding him of other things that were not books (actually everything was by now). If it wouldn't seem odd to Mr Strange, which it would, he wouldn't mind retiring to his bedroom for a while.

After dinner, they went back to the books. Mr Norrell was trying not to squirm in his seat. He thought _at least I'm not...wet,_ and then, _oh, d--n!_ and carefully placed his book in his lap. 

"Is anything the matter, sir?" said Mr Strange.

 _You have no idea. I hope._ If he got any harder he'd wear a hole in the book. 

"Nothing at all!" _Only the desire to frig myself stupid and then maybe I can think straight,_ he thought. But it wasn't his own hand he really wanted, of course. It was Jonathan's hand, and (however many times it had satisfied him) it had never touched his prick even once. And he wanted to try all the rest of it. He had never been particularly tempted by sodomy, it sounded so odd and uncomfortable, but now he knew what it felt like to have Jonathan all over him, have Jonathan in him...oh, if only Jonathan didn't have such a marked preference for women!

Tomorrow he would look all over Sutton-Grove for some kind of spell of abstinence, something to get himself less...interested. If he couldn't find one, he'd have to invent one. He couldn't suffer this! However had he managed it before?

But, after some careful effort, he managed to calm himself enough to start thinking about his weather project. There were all sorts of interesting details. He worked them out until it could reasonably be considered bedtime. 

He was quite surprised when he said, "I assume you will wish to retrieve your possessions from my room, Mr Strange," and Mr Strange smiled, and said, "But what would you do in case of cats or mice? And it's much the most comfortable bed."

 _I shall definitely look for that spell tomorrow!_ Mr Norrell thought. He wished Mr Strange would not innocently try his patience so. He went up first, and scrambled into his longest, thickest winter nightshirt.

Mr Strange came in, and he squeaked nervously and got into bed. 

"Are you sure you wouldn't prefer a kiss-and-a-cuddle to keep warm?"

"It is unkind in you, sir, to make mock of my...my feelings for you, which I cannot help."

"Now come on, Gilbert, what's this all about?" Mr Strange smiled--unexpectedly sweetly--and Mr Norrell's heart turned over, and all he could do to calm himself was shut his eyes. 

"Mm?" said Mr Strange. "Surely we've had this conversation already."

Mr Norrell squeaked with anger and distress, and opened his eyes again. "I am not such a fool, sir, as to believe a married man--a man for women--would continue with certain accommodations once my physical form does not... is not satisfactory."

Mr Strange looked rather puzzled. "But I told you, even if you looked like _you_ and you were so desperate to have me, I was quite all right with that." 

Mr Norrell had had no experience before temptation struck with the fairy's spell, but he had heard (possibly from overhearing some injudicious statements from Mr Lascelles) that men might easily change their minds later. He said, "There's a difference between what men say in the heat of the moment--and, I might remind you, looking at someone exactly resembling your wife--and what they are prepared to do in the plain light of day."

Mr Strange grinned. "Then since there is so little of _that_ in this vicinity, sir, I may venture to assert the pair of us will do very well."

Mr Norrell peered at him mistrustfully, rather wishing he had his glasses, then remembering he was none too good at understanding people by sight at the best of times. "But you have no idea what it's like to touch a man, I suppose, any more than I have of how to touch a woman as my male self, and I don't think I could _bear_ it if we were kissing, and caressing, and I, ah, required you to touch me, and you discovered you could not bring yourself to." He was hard, again, very much wanting, but the danger of sickening Mr Strange with his desires was troubling him. 

"Oh, if _that's_ all that's bothering you, sir... When men are at war, they come to their own arrangements. It would be so lonely, else, and when there's every likelihood that one may not live to see one's wife again. And there's less likelihood of disease than the local whores," he added practically. 

Mr Norrell shoved off the bedclothes, and in short order his night-shirt. "I ought to be very shocked," he said, "but I cannot help still wanting you. I've been thinking about it all day."

"Well, that makes both of us!" said Mr Strange with a smile. "Every time you squirmed where you were sitting, I wondered if you were getting a bit randy. Although I wasn't sure--you haven't been shy about expressing your desires so far."

"When I looked like her, I knew I could have you," he said simply. 

Mr Strange snorted. "And that's not true. If a Fairy transformed to look like her, I wouldn't lay a finger on them, because I couldn't trust a Fairy."

"So you do like me? A little?" He was hopeful--a little. 

"Of course." Mr Strange kissed him. Kissing as himself was so strange--his skin was different in the approach, and then his mouth felt bigger. He moaned into the kiss, _this tongue has never tasted him before,_ and he was still smaller than Mr Strange, but it felt different.

"You've got that lovely blush again," Jonathan said, drawing back from the kiss, and he felt the impulse to squirm, to hide--and to fling himself on Jonathan again. 

Mr Norrell said, "It's hard to remember I'm a fifty-year-old man and I should take it slowly." Because any time in the last week he could have been quick, then slow-and-thorough...and it was all sorts of unbelievable to think _when I was a woman yesterday._ He shivered. 

"All right, let's get you in the warm," said Jonathan, handing him the covers to pull up. "Wait a minute, and I'll get undressed." He did so.

Mr Norrell made room, and Jonathan slipped in. And then they were in each other's arms, and Jonathan was so wonderfully warm, and he was _dreadfully_ hard. He wriggled restlessly. "Can't _wait_...need your hand on my prick!" he gasped.

Jonathan put his hand there, squeezed, and Mr Norrell felt everything slip into place--the strange double organ he'd had last week had resolved into his familiar rigid slippery prick, and it functioned perfectly, a rush of heat and he spent himself in seconds, didn't even have time to cry out because it was so deliciously _effortless._

He fell back, and mumbled indistinctly, "'s wonderful. Being home." 

"Back with all parts in working order?" said Jonathan, sounding a little tense. 

"That..." he yawned hugely, "...and you. Wanted you to touch me...for _years."_ He reached out to stroke Jonathan, who cursed in a way he had probably learned from a soldier.

"Mm?" Mr Norrell said foggily. 

"You're too tired."

Mr Norrell thought for a moment. "Use my hands on you." He sighed blissfully as he was used, as Jonathan grabbed him, as his familiar hands were pushed into a grip on that beautiful big stiff prick. It didn't take long. There was a deep groan, a pulsing, and his hands were wetter. 

They fell asleep, still sprawled all over each other. 

 

 

The next morning, if it was a morning, he felt terribly foolish. They were practically stuck together, which was distasteful. He had done precisely what he had said he ought not to do, and forgotten the limitations of his older male body, settling for a very unsatisfactory experience. Not that he hadn't enjoyed it, of course, but what would Mr Strange think about being used like that? Nothing but his hand, nothing but the simple grip of his hand. He hadn't even had the sense to reciprocate. Even those soldiers, however casual they had been about it, must have done better at pleasing their magician in bed. Oh! That was such an unpleasant thought! It made his prick twitch a little at the thought of Mr Strange with other (taller, stronger, handsomer) men, but that couldn't make up for the way it made his heart and mind sad at the thought of that whole aspect of Mr Strange's life where he could never have followed, never have held him when he was lonely (never have held him when he himself was lonely). 

Of course, now he'd made such an appalling mull of the whole business, he had better make himself scarce and have the grace to let Mr Strange settle what he thought of the embarrassing affair.

He hurried out of bed, only hearing a half-awake mutter from Mr Strange, and went to clean and scrub every part of his person by the time Mr Strange woke up. The least he could do was make sure Mr Strange did not wake up to him filthy.

By the time Mr Strange came downstairs, Mr Norrell had made himself a pot of chocolate and was sitting by the fire alternating drinking with reading. They were nearly out of cream, and he hoped the Cat's suggestions proved fruitful.

Mr Strange came up to him and--as he tried to turn away from being kissed on the cheek--kissed him on the corner of his mouth.

"I rather thought I had cured you of being so modest, Gilbert. Don't you like kissing?"

"I haven't put you off? I was quite certain I had been the worst carnal experience of your life--worse than your wife, certainly, and probably worse than those soldiers. I was so..."

Mr Strange grinned at him. "So delightfully needy and shameless? Also, having more experience than you doesn't mean I make a lot of comparisons."

"It doesn't?" Mr Norrell (who had derived hours of entertainment from comparing books with other books) was surprized. 

"Maybe if I had taken you to bed promptly on my arrival here, with my mind full of memories of Bell--let alone having recently run mad--I would not have devoted myself to taking care of you." Mr Strange put a hand on his shoulder. "But everyone's different, sir, and it doesn't mean I care for anyone less if I add another. There's been enough time that I can see you as yourself, not just a passing warm body."

Mr Norrell could only think of one comparison to bring out Mr Strange's true significance to him. "You are my Sutton-Grove, sir! You are a compendium of all I know in the matters of the heart, and my understanding grows greater in trying to follow where you lead."

He could not quite understand why Mr Strange found that funny. Was it not of value to offer such broad knowledge to another person?

"I should not laugh, sir," said Mr Strange, hugging him warmly. "I daresay Sutton-Grove has great benefits for people of a systematic cast of mind, and it's a flaw in myself that he sends me to sleep."

Mr Norrell sniffed. "I suppose...as long as I do not."

"I am glad, sir, in a way, that I ended up in this curious situation. I would never truly have had the patience to try to understand you out there. If I'm your Sutton-Grove, maybe you are to me like Childermass's cards of Marseilles. You are aware of that?"

"A superstitious ritual," said Mr Norrell repressively.

"I mean, sir, that you are perhaps a book so subtle it says a new thing when you set it down and take it up again. Someone I can take time to know, that I would never have had the patience for before."

Nobody had been so odd as to accuse him of originality before. He found he quite liked it. If one could not make room for new experiences in Eternal Darkness and Faerie, when could one? Mr Strange had been somewhat impatient before, certainly, and the idea that they might grow together--Mr Strange being more patient, and himself discovering he could cope with difficulties--was a comfort. He placed his hand shyly on Mr Strange's. 

They were interrupted by a piece of rather elegant paper fluttering down on the table.

**The King of the Brugh Hope Regained wishes to know whether the English magicians have any Useful Spells for the Avoidance of Warfare, since his own Talents & Interests are Closer Concerned with Renewal than Destruction, & Casting Out any of the Fae who Wish to Prove Themselves is becoming Unimaginably Tedious. Stephen Rex.**

Mr Norrell cast a spell of detection upon the note, and was surprized to discover that this mysterious King was not only innocent of any desire to harm them, but a Christian that they already knew. Could that be right? He cast it twice again to check, and got the same result.

They sent back a note announcing their intention to call on the King, and warning him that they were unavoidably associated with Eternal Darkness at the current time. 

They both worked on spells for instilling fear and disquiet. Then they took themselves, and their Darkness, and their spells, to the brugh.

Hope Regained looked superficially similar to Lost-hope, without any of its dispiriting features. It was clean, and gleaming (they had put a lot of lighting ready for the magicians' visit), and although the Fairy fiddler had little range, he knew three or four quite cheerful dances, which was a wonderful improvement on the one sad tune.

To their great wonder, it _had been_ Lost-hope, and to their greatest wonder, the King was familiar as the man who used to be Sir Walter Pole's butler. He looked very regal rather than just stately. 

Mr Strange blinked, and said, "I am delighted to find you so well, sir. I have met a few people who were sure you were an African prince, but I think even they would be surprized by your current elevation."

Mr Norrell blessed him for his poise and address. He had a nasty feeling that left to himself he would have spluttered "But--how--what--" or (having difficulty switching between contexts) asked him where his master was. However King Stephen had reached this position, a brugh full of Fairies were evidently prepared to accept him in it. 

But Mr Strange could find the words to ask the right questions. It turned out that this new King had been a "nameless slave" at just the right time and their spell had mapped onto him. Suddenly rock and tree, water and stone, had risen to answer him and risen to destroy their common enemy, the ruler of Lost-hope.

He whispered to Mr Strange, "But I thought it was the Raven King!"

Mr Strange whispered back, "Do you think, sir, that any man could style himself 'the nameless slave', and magic run through him, and it be _not_ at the will of John Uskglass himself?"

He had to admit the justice of that. "Given what we saw later of the chaos of ravens, I am glad his hand came no nearer to us."

Then the new King, the two magicians, and the King's senior advisors, bent together over the fear-spells and suggestions of disquiet. To Mr Norrell's considerable amazement, his own suggestions were the most successful. It turned out that the horrors Mr Strange could find to terrify Christians were not as effective here. They knew about things like wolves and dragons and evil spells. Mr Norrell's discomforts (which had produced no real effect on the world of men) came up behind one, tugged nervously at one's sleeve, and suggested, what if you're improperly-dressed for the occasion? did you not leave your most important preparations undone? is it not time to go and study the spells one has no doubt misremembered? 

This unexpected method might not have worked from another Christian, but somebody with so much power and so many intensely-imagined nervous fears could convey them quite well.

Simply because these were the disquiets of another world, Fairies were ill-defended against them. The Russian Tsar and various troops had been horrified by...horrors, as was the way of men. Fairies given a sense of vague disquiet were simply reminded that one had nothing but time. One could always go away, check something, and come back later. And given their well-known ability to be distracted, they were perfectly likely to forget what they were about entirely. 

After a few hours of observing various enemies quietly changing their minds, the King asked what he might offer them. Mr Norrell said, "The fairy-market seems hard to trade with and we are always running out of milk or cream. Might it be possible to find us a cow?"

There was scattered laughter. Apparently this was an unambitious thing to ask of a king. But Mr Norrell felt warmed all through when Mr Strange held his hand and whispered, "Very well done, sir."

Returning to Hurtfew, they heard lowing and discovered a cow tethered to a tree in the garden. 

The cow took her change of ownership philosophically. Mr Strange tried to milk her by hand, then gave up and created a spell with the help of Mr Norrell, who had refused point-blank to do any milking. The cow was less-composed about being magically-milked, but after a while accepted it. 

They had a delightful pot of tea with enough milk for Mr Norrell. He felt just a little sleepy after the work, and the tea, and settled back on the sopha. Mr Strange slipped an arm round him, and snuggled up. He was embarrassed to find himself almost in Mr Strange's lap. Mr Strange might start getting the wrong (...right) idea about how he felt, which meant it was time to sit up like a sensible person. He was now feeling not a bit sleepy. He sat up a bit, and kissed Mr Strange because Mr Strange was _right there_ and he couldn't resist, and then Mr Strange kissed him, lovely warm kissing that made him melt. 

It left him panting and no doubt looking well on the way to being debauched.

"Want to sit up and read Tryland?" said Mr Strange, "or shall we make sure your losing-your-virginity thing worked?" He slipped an impertinent hand underneath Mr Norrell and cupped a buttock. "You only lost it as a woman, sir, and I should hate to discover they're after you for the rest of it."

Mr Norrell opened his mouth, then closed it, trying desperately to work out _what does he mean by that?_

"And if you're about to tell me that's a shamelessly self-serving exercise in mere sophistry, quite right, sir," said Mr Strange. 

"Fairies are indeed not to be trusted, Mr Strange. If you think..." he gulped. "If you think fucking me would make the question clearer, of course we should do it." After all, Mr Strange was the experienced one. If he thought Mr Norrell would benefit from more practice... (Mr Norrell gasped as Mr Strange put the other hand down and gripped his buttocks with both hands) ...Mr Norrell should of course defer to his evident experience.

Mr Strange looked slightly stunned, then came forward to kiss him. "I had not thought you even knew the word, sir."

"Those occasions when I could not bring myself to use the crudest of language, sir, were when I was not in a state of particular excitement," he admitted. "I seem to have regrettably indelicate habits sometimes."

Jonathan licked his throat. "So if I'd talked about your cunt, or your prick, or _fucking_ you," he murmured into his ear, "when you were aroused, you would have been quite as sluttish as anyone might desire." He followed this comment by nibbling his ear. "It's a nice thought, although I haven't heard much evidence."

"The thoughts in my head sometimes get quite monosyllabic." Mr Norrell went to bend over the chair, feeling glad that it was a large, sturdy one, and did not move distractingly as he gripped it. 

"Probably just before you start screaming," said Jonathan, as if he liked the idea, while he undid Mr Norrell's breeches and small-clothes.

"I don't appear to make so much noise in my natural form. As far as I know," Mr Norrell said honestly, as Jonathan pushed his loosened clothes down until he was half-naked in the chair. 

Jonathan kissed him again, firmly, on the neck. "Difficult to tell. Most of your experience so far _hasn't_ been in your natural form." He followed the kiss with a bite. Then he cursed mildly. "I can't believe I've got this far before I remembered the oil is in the bedroom."

Mr Norrell kicked. "I don't care!"

"You were a woman last week, sir, and could lubricate yourself naturally. Believe me, if you try as a man without you'll soon see the point of it." Jonathan showed Mr Norrell what he meant with a fingertip, and Mr Norrell said, "Ouch, stop, stop! I agree! Go and find it immediately."

Jonathan said, "I ought to have a spell for this, but now is not the time to work one up. Stay there and think of me, sir." He went out, presumably in search of oil. Mr Norrell thought of him obediently and stayed still. As still as he could manage, anyway. 

"What a lovely sight!" said Jonathan as he came back in, and Mr Norrell groaned and humped up a bit, pushing his arse backwards. Jonathan commanded him to lift up a bit so he could put an old sheet underneath them. Then Jonathan showed him what he'd meant about lubrication, oiled fingers felt good there, and an oiled prick felt even more interesting nudging against him.

It felt different from fucking as a woman; oddly easier, because this organ of his body had been (if not one he was pleased to think on) at least _there._ Once Jonathan had told him how to move, how to bear down to let him in, he felt slightly more of an active participant--at least Jonathan was not teaching him how to open a body part Jonathan was so much better acquainted with than he himself was. Maybe if he were not aroused he might think sodomy was a distasteful business, but he _was,_ and it was _Jonathan,_ so any annoying prudery could go away right now, thank you.

There was then a curious similarity to a woman's parts. He had never expected to be reminded of "the button" once he had recovered his own simple organ. But something small was there, on the inside of him, suddenly aware of how Jonathan's prick nudged at it. Since it didn't work like the female organ, didn't seem to channel the entirety of his pleasure, he was at a loss to account for quite how pleasant it seemed to have something brush across it. A sort of...jolty sort of feeling, but he was gasping helplessly as Jonathan kept pushing against it. But as a woman he had been lost to all decency or rational thought as soon as someone touched that tiny organ between his legs; this just made him want more fucking while he was being satisfied in front. More of an adjunct than a necessity. 

He said, "Touch me _now!"_ as imperiously as he ever had while a woman.

Jonathan said, "I can't _concentrate,_ I can either touch or fuck!"

Mr Norrell said, "Go on, then!" and used his own hand, barely even noticing how uncomfortable it was to try to stay in position, _squeeze_ and _pull_ and feel the heat in his insides, the heat rushing outwards, and he yelled, and Jonathan clamped his arm round Mr Norrell's belly, stopped him collapsing, swore like a soldier and spent in him. 

Then they both fell into the chair in an inelegant heap, and did their best to disengage. Jonathan went to get a damp cloth. 

"Jonathan," Mr Norrell said wonderingly. 

"Yes?" Jonathan began to dab at them. 

"I think you broke my customs. As I find it difficult to speak or think coarsely when I am in a state of calm, I have also always had the habit of thinking of you as 'Mr Strange' except when we are amorously engaged. In order not to...encroach, or presume on an intimacy that may be unwelcome. But now even the inside of my head thinks of you as 'Jonathan'. I shall have to school myself better."

"Gilbert, my very dear idiot, I never asked that of you! Of course it'd be a miserable business if we live so close but have to avoid any hint of intimacy." He sat round in the chair, which was large enough to admit of them both sitting side-by-side. 

Carefully, Mr Norrell slipped an arm round Jonathan. "But I'm most frightfully jealous, sir!" he burst out. "She had your love, and I could pretend a little, when I was looking like her..." He suddenly shut his mouth, feeling a dreadful blush take over his face. 

"I thought your..." Jonathan said, getting up. 

Mr Norrell glared. 

"...well, your esteem for me, sir, was an open secret."

"How did you find out!" Mr Norrell said, not being accustomed to letting his secrets be told. 

"Why, you told me yourself, not a sennight since!" Jonathan said. "I asked you how long you've wanted to touch me."

"Yes, I recollect that, sir, but that was a matter of physical appetites."

Jonathan's mouth twitched into a perfectly enchanting smile. "Until you told me, sir, that then you dreamed you were here at Hurtfew--home, sir!--and you were handing me your heart down from the shelves."

"Oh." _How do I get out of that?_

"You need not fear, sir, that I will treat it with any less than the greatest of care." 

"But you love _her!"_

"And now you, Gilbert." Awkward as he always had been with human questions, he rather thought Jonathan meant it. He lost all desire to speak, but took Jonathan's hand in his, and squeezed it. 

After a few moments he asked, "What if we go back?" It would break his heart, and he would rather it were left on the shelves than that. 

"If we go back, and it be within a normal Christian tale of years so that my wife is there and unmarried--which is by no means likely considering how oddly time runs here--then I will tell her the truth, that being that I cannot chuse to lose either of you."

"Oh, my dear, my very dear Jonathan," he said, quite overcome. "Of course I love you, I never managed the trick of it with anybody else."

"And I woke up in the middle of the night a few days ago, and said I loved you. I rather considered the matter settled from that!" said Jonathan. 

"You did not append a name, sir. I did not know whether you were talking to the present or former inhabitant of that body."

Jonathan laughed helplessly, and kissed him.

"I think I don't mind you laughing at me," said Mr Norrell. "Which is not something I ever expected to say, to anyone. I may not be particularly good at love, but I shall try my best. I expect you to tell me if I get it wrong, because I have no books on the subject, so that is the best way for me to improve."

He thought it a rather weak declaration, himself, but Jonathan pulled him up out of the chair and kissed him in a way that was nothing of appetite and all of love, for some time. Possibly this meant that his feelings were adequate.


End file.
